In Praise of Modernity

I could be a turtle
you drive around in your bag,
while your fumes invade half the city.

Only the turtle can witness it all:
The girl who started wearing hijab
having given up on styling her hair,
the young man who fuses hip-hop with fiqh,  
and the deep state, in whose pits we masturbate.

My mother defines my expatriation
as the desiccation of the smell she loves;
I define my expatriation
by my relationship to the washing machine.

Only laundromats in America
respect cultural diversity.
For you might wash your clothes after your enemy’s,
convinced that your sweat 
will not mingle.

I love the city.
And I really do love modernity—
if only because I can’t stand insects!